Seven minutes
by HollyC
Summary: After the events of Red White and Blue, Benton is missing.
1. 7 Minutes

SEVEN MINUTES  
  
The story is mine but the characters are Alliances. I'm just borrowing them.  
  
Do not archive without the permission of the author.  
  
PG 13 Drama  
  
Set after RWB. I wrote this because that bullet always bothered me.  
  
As he locked the door of the Consulate, he breathed in deeply. The Chicago evening air was cooling. It had been a satisfactory ending to a complicated day. Benton Fraser fingered the keys absently. He looked at the darkening sky and thought fondly of the semaphore messages The Inspector had surprised him; he'd surprised himself at his own presumption. His cheeks threatened to burn at the memory; 'red suits you'. He winced as the keys hit a painful spot on his wrist; it had been a mistake to slide down that elevator cable. He had nasty itchy burns on his forearm now, which he had treated with antiseptic at the consulate. He resolved not to try that again in the near future.  
  
He walked slowly down the steps to the sidewalk and turned to face West Racine. He was looking forward to the walk home; he needed to clear his mind of the trauma of the day. He was pleased that the Bolt brothers had finally been apprehended and that he and Ray had succeeded in saving the lives of the judge and jury, a feat Diefenbaker had not hesitated in taking credit for, ingrate! Yes, he was instrumental in tying up the loose ends, the recovery of the bonds and trapping the Bolts, but then so were he and Ray. Benton tsked. Presshound!  
  
He turned round quickly, half expecting the wolf to be trotting at his heels or sniffing at some unsuspecting lamppost. Dief wasn't there of course; he had managed to inveigle his way into the affections of a blonde woman reporter who, impressed with his detective skills, had taken him off for a treat and a photograph session, with the promise to return him to the Mountie's apartment that evening. The movement forced a gasp from his lips. That hurt, a twinge in his back, and with it came a memory, unbidden and unwelcome. It issued from the wound in his back. Ray's bullet was still embedded near a vertebra where it always would be; a reminder to Benton of his foolishness, his darker side, and his vulnerability where women were concerned. It was a facet of his personality he was loathe to think about, the dark side he preferred to pretend did not exist.  
  
He had slowly been coming to terms with those tragic days. It was taking some time, his trust in others and belief in himself had been damaged. He could not bring himself to talk about it with Ray, and Meg had no inkling either of the torment he went through each time he considered the possibility of a serious romance. The fear was lessening now as he recognised in her a similar reluctance, like magnets, they both attracted and repelled each other. She did not throw herself at him like other women did. Rather, she gave him space, was even aloof despite their sharing of what he had come to call 'The Moment' -- whenever he allowed himself to think of it, which was, truth to tell, frequently. He had of late begun to wonder if he could, indeed, be capable of allowing another woman near. Thatcher's record was exemplary and as a Mountie, it went without saying that she was dependable, honest and upright, like himself. Maybe she had been hurt too at some time. He doubted she could have been as foolish as he had been. She would never desert her friend, her job, her honour for a criminal. No, no one could be that foolish; it took a naive idiot to (to borrow one of Ray's phrases) screw up big time like he had done. He could not imagine the Inspector falling for someone as devious as Victoria. No, he had been blinded by passion and would suffer for it for the rest of his life, Ray made sure of that. Oh, he'd forgiven Ray for shooting him, yes, maybe was even glad of it. That bullet was his conscience now, warning him about women, to be wary of his own feelings. To be aware that his own judgement could be based too much on emotion, faulty logic, animal instinct, and could be so very wrong. He deserved those twinges; they would serve to keep him on the straight path, maintaining the right.  
  
He looked up from his reverie to check he was still walking in the right direction. He had been so lost in thought he feared he might have gotten turned around, but no, he was on the right street. back to Ray and Ray's bullet. That had been quite some argument yesterday...was it yesterday? Ray had been in a snit over that magazine article. When he thought carefully about it, he realised that their relationship had not got back to an even keel since Irene. Was there a hint of resentment still there? And the thought that Ray considered him unfeeling, lacking in emotion still rankled. Benton considered himself to be a deeply feeling person; he just didn't care to wear his heart on his sleeve as the Italian did. Another twitch, was this worse than usual? He suspected so as he discovered he could not put as much pressure on one foot as he normally would. Great Scott, he was having to limp! Could it have been the fall down the elevator shaft? Surely, a fit body like his could take a fall like that. He always managed to land gracefully from great heights, a feat of which he was immensely proud. Falling was something he was good at, falling from trains ...yeah, sure, but not falling in love. Jumping he did well too: off cliffs, off roofs, off trains. The kiss, The Moment. He tried to focus on that; trains were a problem. He would steer away from the thought of falling out of Victoria's arms in the train station, concentrate on the top of a speeding train full of sleeping Mounties, the snow glistening all around and a cold wind ruffling his hair through a crownless Stetson. The moment his eyes locked on hers, it was unavoidable; I have a heart and it beats just like yours.....a runaway. During the kiss time had stood still and they were both, he knew, totally unaware of the precarious hold they had on the surface of the train or the danger that threatened. It had been ... exhilarating.  
  
Another twinge, getting worse, travelling down his spine through to the little toe on his right foot, and at the same time up to his head. He rubbed at his temples and stopped to lean on a hydrant to catch his breath, squeeze his eyes and furrow his brow. A shake of the head, better, the annoying fizzing in his ears eased off; he had only just become aware of it, though it must have been building up for some time. His vision had become a little blurred, he was finding it difficult to focus on the traffic lights and he needed to cross the road. He limped to the junction, the lights changed and he crossed, helping a young mother and her stroller loaded with baby and shopping cross with him. He held the infant's hand for her, maybe as much for his own security. He made it to the other side without incident, touched the brim of his hat and smiled. Where?  
  
A sharper twinge made him gasp. He was confused, how long had he had that bullet, Ray's bullet, in his back? Months. Was it really that long ago? He could remember it as well as the events of yesterday, the events of this morning; he tried to focus on them, today had been a success, lives had been saved ... lots of lives.  
  
Where was he? He stopped once more to rub his back and stretch. The twinge had become a pain, it eased a little, he couldn't remember when the twinge had turned into a pain. He looked up at the sky, not so clear as at home, too much light pollution. Too much light in Chicago, and much too much pollution, but the sky was dark. Night fell and he couldn't remember it happening. It's always light, hey, Dief?  
  
And no stars, the moon but no stars except maybe the North Star. Yes, he could just make it out, a tiny yellow dot in the sky. It was a peculiar sensation, looking at one star in a sky that was not very dark. At home, he could find his way through the tundra using constellations to guide him on days when the light hardly came at all. If he looked hard enough maybe he could see the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, Castor and Pollux, Sirius, maybe even the northern lights. What were the northern lights doing in Chicago? He blinked and in doing so realised that his eyes had been closed, now they were open he could see the dark sky once more and the street light above his head. Great Scott! What am I doing lying down on a Chicago Street? Ray, why didn't you tell me I fell over, did I faint? There was no answer to Benton's puzzled question because he was alone and Ray was at his home dining with his argumentative siblings.  
  
He was vaguely aware of people passing by above him; it was their feet and legs he could see, and he could hear their voices, dismissing him as a drunk or an addict. Drunk? I don't drink; it takes away your judgement, your common sense. Then again, maybe he should drink, he wasn't drunk when he ran for that train, wasn't drunk when he jumped bail. Ray could have lost his house. Where was reason then?  
  
'Hey, buddy, ya need some help?'  
  
Benton opened his eyes at the rough voice and reached for the proffered hand that blocked his vision of the filthy street.  
  
'Say, I know a place for the homeless, I can show ya.'  
  
Benton levered himself to standing, recoiled at the helpful hobo's rancid breath, brushed the dirt off his uniform and shook his head.  
  
'Thank you kindly, I am not homeless.'  
  
He looked around with some disorientation,  
  
'Sir, could you tell me in which direction is West Racine. I seem to be lost. '  
  
Benton was confused, he did not normally get lost, he had a compass. The hobo chuckled,  
  
'Ya don' wanna go there, I know much better places.'  
  
'I live there.' rejoined Benton, dryly.  
  
's thataway.'  
  
The hobo shrugged and pointed in what seemed to the Mountie to be an indeterminate direction and moved off mumbling incoherently, taking a swig from what appeared to be a paper bag. As he faded into the darkness Benton thought he could see him place a Stetson on his head. Benton hugged his coat closer around him, puzzled, was it getting colder? He proceeded unsteadily in the general direction of where he assumed the street person had pointed.  
  
'Thank you kindly'  
  
The pain seemed to have faded to a dull ache through his back and legs, he felt extremely tired, but then it had been an exhausting twenty-four hours. He had been covered in a poncho and strapped to a bomb and his best friend in a courtroom; these were not common occurrences. Well, not where he came from, he couldn't recall ever having seen a poncho before in real life, much less worn one. Having to control his and Ray's heartbeats had been stressful , defusing the bomb had taken up much nervous energy. So yes, he had a right to be exhausted. Not forgetting the fact that he had been punched unconscious. Exhaustion seemed entirely in order, a natural progression. But this dull throbbing pain was something else and it was taking all his concentration to not end up flat on his back again. Concentrate Benton, on getting home to a warming cup of tea, a cozy blanket and a comfortable bed. He was finding it difficult to move his legs but squinting up at the shop signs he registered that it was not far to his slummy apartment. The shops were certainly looking more dingy and run down.  
  
He took a deep breath to steady himself; he appeared to be swaying. Like he was on a train; was he on a train with Victoria? Where were they going? 'Come with me.... you'll regret it if you don't' -- he heard those words as if she were right there with him, as if were there again and no time had passed. It was not going fast, slow so that he swayed gently, rhythmically without losing balance. She was holding him ... ...he was holding her. She was warm and soft and she smelt like home, he had known her forever, across a thousand lifetimes; she was the other half of his soul. She has caught him, caught this morning's minion, kingdom of daylight, he could hear her poem again.... how he rung upon the rein ... rain ... Ray. He should apologise to Ray for running off like that, for risking Ray's house and reputation, for that silly argument. For not getting him featured, too, in the article about the day he saved Chicago from nuclear annihilation. Chicago, the city Ray loves. But Benny. Benny was not so sure. It seemed to him more and more that life sucks sometimes. People up and leave you, taking a part of you with them. Soon there would be very little of Benny left to give, to help people with. If other people keep taking bits with hem when they go. Who went? His mother, his grandparents, his father, Mark, Victoria ... Where was he? On a train? No on a street, he could see the lamplight above, no lamps on a train. how did that happen? It must be near now, home. he could see the moon, a crescent, a bow, a bow bend.....the fire that breaks, he could feel the fire in his back, the fire of the bullet, Ray's bullet. Ray's bullet, finally reaching its target.  
  
TH 


	2. seven minutes More

2 Seven Minutes  
  
"Benton", whispered an urgent voice. "Benton. Go back son, you should not be here."  
  
Fraser looked around. He was on an ice floe. He sat up. No pain, no aches. The sky was a clear arctic blue, bright from reflected snow.  
  
"Dad? What are you doing here?"  
  
Benton looked at his hands- no burns. He was wearing his red serge coat, his Sam Browne belt, blue trousers, Mountie boots and, yes, he felt his head, his Stetson. The air, when he sucked it in, was crisp and clear. No exhaust fumes. It felt good. Benton smiled; he felt kind of peaceful.  
  
"Benton!" He looked back to his father. "Son, you have to go, you don't belong here." His father's voice was concerned. Ben studied him hard. He looked like he always did, but Benton, himself, felt a great peace. Peaceful; no other word for this feeling; no doubts, no longings, no hesitations, no lack of trust, no sense of betrayal, no sense of loss. He felt belonging. It felt right. Ignoring the older man, he glanced away towards a splashing sound to catch sight of an otter playfully flicking its tail. And over to the left a school of seal cavorted on the ice, honking. He had not heard that sound in a long long time.  
  
"I'd like to stay here." He replied, simply. "Dad, the pain has gone."  
  
Robert Fraser knew that his son was not talking about physical pain, no, that sort of pain had never scared Benton. He was talking about that other sort of pain. The pain he had felt when Caroline had died  
  
.  
  
"It's not your time, son. You have things to do. You have friends, they are concerned about you."  
  
"But I like it here," Fraser was becoming petulant. He was reluctant to give up the comfort of the bright and familiar ice.  
  
"You have to face your life, you have a lot to give, you have a lot of love still in you-"  
  
"But Dad, when I love it all turns to darkness. I'm afraid of the choices I have made. And might make in the future. I'm afraid of the darkness inside me, the things I am capable of. I let people down."  
  
His father nodded and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, " Benton, we all have our demons to face, we all have our unpleasant sides. Your friend Ray, for example, he is not always honest is he? And after all, he did shoot you. But you forgave him; forgive yourself now. It's time all those wounds were healed."  
  
Benton turned his gaze from the sparkling water to the pure clean ice to the compassion of his father's face. "The world is a dirty place," he whispered.  
  
"Yes, and you are helping to find the purity in it. People like you are rare there. You have to return and show people the goodness in themselves. You have so much goodness in you."  
  
His father's voice was becoming faint and his face blurry, it was turning into the blinding glare of the ice. Benton blinked. Yes, his father was right, he had been a coward. He ought to be facing up to his mistakes, concentrating on his inner strength. He should concentrate on the inspector and the possibilities there. He need not be alone; he would look for the light and the loveliness of things.  
  
Bright light, Benton blinked rapidly until the light in his eyes eased, unsure if they were open or closed. Finally, he was able to focus on the face of a stranger.  
  
The stranger spoke to him, reassuringly and controlled. Benton could not make out the quiet words. Maybe it was French. Speak slowly, I can't understand. He felt warm now but was unable to move his legs and his arms were too heavy to be bothered with. He moved his head away from the kind face and saw that he was in a room, on his back in a bed. He could hear other voices, hushed. He sniffed deeply, antiseptic, bleach. He licked his lips, they were dry and cracked and he could not find a voice to speak. Was it still a dream? He could feel something sharp in his arm and tight on his chest and tried to make some sense of it all. A hospital? But how did he get here? It was easier to drift back and look for the ice floe and his father who would answer his questions.  
  
Finding the ice floe was more difficult than anticipated. What he did find was a vast expanse of snow and cliff, he even found Diefenbaker. Snuggling into his furry hood, he crouched in the snow next to the wolf, unconsciously rubbing him behind his ears.  
  
"What can you see, boy?"  
  
He searched the snow for clues, a footprint, a broken twig. His tracking skills were, after all, legendary. He squinted in the bright arctic sun. How he loved the purity of it all, the silence, the isolation, the stillness. It was untouched by the evil in men's hearts. That was why he was drawn to it.  
  
Victoria.  
  
He couldn't stop the memory of Fortitude Pass. It was like this place. Unwelcome memories replayed. His supplies lost, sheer exhaustion had overtaken him, then he saw her huddled against that crag. His quarry at last. Yes, he was an exceptional tracker. He nearly died then, was delirious too, through cold and hunger. Her voice had brought him back, the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. She recited that poem, her poem. Afterwards he had searched for it, memorised it until it had become his poem too. Windhover. The poem that had helped him survive Ray's bullet at the station, in the ambulance, at the hospital in the ER. Windhover; a bird. There were birds in the clear sky, high up and circling. Not windhovers, or maybe they were. Time to give up and go back, Benton. Time to stop running away. Ray would be worried. Meg would be worried. When did she stop being Inspector Thatcher and become Meg ? He smiled, the ice was melting and slowly changing into a Chicago Street, Octavia. A sunny street and there was Ray's house. He only had to climb the familiar steps and Ma Vecchio would open the door, welcome him with a hug and draw him inside to the comfort of a loving family.  
  
Ray's bullet could wait. 


	3. Ray's story

This is Ray's story  
  
Detective Raymond Vecchio was finishing a piece of his mother's excellent cassata when his cell phone beeped. He knew he should have turned it off. After the day he had just had, all he wanted to do was collapse on the sofa with a bottle of Coors and the Chicago Guardian and just relax. Well maybe not with the Guardian, wasn't that the trigger that started the dispute with Benny? His saintly photo smiling on the front page. And on pages 7,8,9 and 10. Reporters were not his favorite topic either. Man, he was tired; being strapped to a bomb with an irritating friend was stressful. Nevertheless, everything had turned out all right in the end, everyone saved, the Bolts arrested. He had even made it up with Frasier and they were talking to each other again. In fact he was still puzzling over the mysterious semaphore interchange he had witnessed between Benny and the Dragon Lady. Was something going on there? If so, the Mountie wasn't telling. Ray hoped there was, after Victoria Benny could do with a reliable woman who would not betray him.  
  
He stopped this train of thought and turned his attention to the caller. It was Detective Huey at the station house asking for Fraser. Evidently, a journalist had taken Diefenbaker back to Fraser's apartment but could get no answer from the Mountie. She had even spent a nervous half hour waiting outside his room before returning home to put a call through to the police in the hope of tracking him down there. Huey thought perhaps the errant Mountie was at Ray's. This was strange. Ray knew Fraser would never neglect his wolf. Well not under normal circumstances. Ray recalled a time when Benny did abandon Dief and all his other responsibilities to get on a train with Victoria. Her name still brought a taste of bile to the back of his throat. How he despised her. Surely she couldn't have returned. No, that did not bear thinking about. There had to be a more rational explanation. His mind explored possibilities. Ray did not like the explanations his imagination supplied. Sure, the Mountie could take care of himself, couldn't he? Look at the neighbourhood he lived in. Something must have happened.  
  
He told Louis he'd investigate then dialled the Consulate; no answer. So Benny was not working late, he must have left there. He steeled himself and called the Dragon Lady. She told him that Benton had been the last to leave; she'd asked him to lock up. She imagined that would have been around 5.30pm; three and one half hours ago. Where could the Mountie have got to?  
  
As he left his house and climbed into the Buick, a worried frown creasing his brow, he called Elaine and asked her to check the hospitals-just in case. He felt a dread as he did this but really there seemed to be no alternative. For Benny to forget Dief, this meant he was in trouble, Ray accepted that now. He noted the concern in her voice; it was no secret that she had a soft spot for Fraser that had been obvious from the first minute she saw him. Elaine, Francesca, God knew how many others. But Benny was impervious to all except Victoria and maybe Thatcher. Ray did not like Fraser's boss much either. She demanded too much, was too harsh and abrupt. Could she really give him the care and love he needed? Ray hoped fervently that Benny was still around to pursue that relationship in spite of his misgivings. The world would be a lonelier and less fulfilling place without his friend to share it.  
  
With these maudlin thoughts on his mind, Ray drove to the Consulate from where he intended to trace Fraser's probable route home. Maybe he would find some clues. Hey! He was beginning to think like a Mountie. Ray could not stop thoughts of all the terrible things that could have happened to his friend: hit by a drunk driver, mugged by a desperate heroin addict, shot by a lunatic, kidnapped, stalked by one of his many women admirers and- no, he had to think positively. He was probably chatting with some street people or had got sidetracked into solving some destitute person's financial problems, or even trying to catch some criminal on the run. You just never knew with Benny, what would happen. Anything was possible.  
  
Nevertheless, Ray walked slowly, glancing down every dark alleyway looking out for red serge whilst at the same time hoping he would see none. Yes, he found Frasier irritating and annoying as Hell but he had become such an integral part of his life he was like a brother. He could not imagine life without him.  
  
Ray had begun to pray. Pray that his friend was ok, the mantra keeping panic at bay. After walking and searching for 15 minutes, his concentration was broken by the insistent beep of his cellphone. It was Elaine; two John Does at the hospital, neither in a Mountie uniform. Ray sighed, that was good news wasn't it?  
  
Ray was only a couple of blocks from West Racine and there were still no clues. Maybe he should have brought Dief with him to help track his master or pack mate. Or whatever. Ray wasn't sure how the wolf regarded Frasier. He was certainly protective of him. If Dief had been with him, nothing would have happened to him. Ray realised that he had decided at some point during this search that something bad had happened to his friend. He sighed again as he carried on looking with a heavy heart.  
  
A movement up ahead caught his attention, he could make out a figure crouched down in the darkness; Ray's police senses kicked in. The figure was behaving suspiciously so he approached warily. As Ray shouted out "Police, stop right where you are!" the man jumped to his feet and sprinted off into the shadows. The sight of a body on the ground stopped the detective in the action of drawing his weapon. A body clothed in unmistakable red serge. 


	4. Discovered

Discovered  
  
Ray ran toward the fallen figure, "Frasier?"  
  
He knelt down to verify that it was indeed his partner lying in the dirty alleyway. The man he frightened off must have been trying to find something worth stealing from the unconscious Mountie because his Sam Browne was unfastened and some of his jacket buttons were undone. Ray reached out a hand and flexed his fingers before placing them on the Mountie's throat. He sighed in relief when he felt the steady pulse of Fraser's blood. He saw then that Fraser was breathing regularly too. Ray checked for visible injuries and found none but his friend's forehead was hot as if fevered. Ray was puzzled, to his knowledge the Mountie had never fainted before.  
  
"Hey, Frasier, wake up."  
  
He shook him gently and Fraser moaned in response. Then he opened his eyes and met Ray's concerned gaze.  
  
"It's okay, buddy, lie still. What happened to you?"  
  
Fraser squeezed his eyes shut as his face contorted in pain, unable to reply he gasped pitifully. Tears rolled from beneath his eyelids. "I'm here, Benny. Everything is gonna be OK. If you can't get up I'll call an ambulance. You'll be OK."  
  
There was no response; Fraser lay still again his whole body radiating heat. Ray scowled; perhaps he had flu. But if Ray couldn't get him off the sidewalk the paramedics would have to.  
  
Ray called for the emergency services and waited feeling helpless. His detective skills were useless in instances like this as there were no clues. No sign of injury, no sign of a crime. Just his best friend lying there making him feel helpless. How long had he been unconscious like this? That morning Fraser had told Ray that he believed everyone was a Saint. Well not one of the saints who had passed him by that evening had bothered to assist him, had they? Why did Benny insist on seeing the good in everyone? There were too many people who were downright self centered and uncaring and that was the most important lesson life taught you. In this city anyway.  
  
Maybe he should try to wake the Mountie again? He took off his coat and made a pillow of it, which he gently pushed beneath his partner's clammy head. His hair was sticky with sweat and he did not respond when Ray called his name again. When you have flu you wake when someone calls your name, don't you? You don't just lie there pale and still. Fraser coughed and Ray was at his side in an instant, he took a hand in both of his trying to pass on some strength. It was all he could think of to do.  
  
Then he heard the siren and the footfalls of the approaching medics as they took over and did their job. He stood back as they attended his friend and answered their questions as best he could.  
  
"Any recent head injuries ?"  
  
"Well yesterday he was knocked out and he fell down an elevator shaft earlier today." That really sounded ludicrous to Ray's ears and he shook his head. The situations Benny got him into! He responded to the paramedic's incredulous expression with, "Well he is a Mountie. "  
  
Was that it? Maybe the blow to his head from Bolt had given him delayed concussion. Was there such a thing? It certainly sounded plausible to Ray. The medics finished measuring Benton's vital signs, set up an IV line and loaded him into a waiting ambulance allowing a grateful Ray to ride with them to the hospital.  
  
  
  
Ray stood up expectantly as the doctor from ER approached and shook his hand. "Doctor Clarkson. I believe you came in with the Mountie, Constable Fraser?"  
  
"Yes, I'm detective Vecchio." Ray replied. "How is he?"  
  
The doctor explained that Fraser had elevated vital signs indicating a systemic infection. As yet, they were unable to determine the cause as there were no visible signs of injury. He wondered if Ray knew of any serious injuries Fraser had incurred in the past.  
  
Ray's heart skipped a beat, a look of shame crossed his face and he tried to hide it. He thrust his hands in his pockets and scrutinised the floor tiles.  
  
"Several months ago he spent a few weeks in here after a gunshot wound in his back. The bullet was never removed. T8 vertebrae," This last was barely a whisper but the doctor heard it.  
  
"Ah, I see. Then I shall look for his records. If you wish to see your friend wait until a nurse comes for you."  
  
Ray nodded an automatic response. His mind was whirling with desperate thoughts. Was that it ? He knew his bullet was still in Benny's back. It was a wonder he had been allowed to carry on working. Most American policemen would have been invalided out for that.  
  
Automatically, he followed a nurse to the ward and hesitated before entering the room. He was reluctant to face his friend, was this really his fault? After all this time?  
  
Fraser lay motionless on the bed. Ray's haunted eyes took in the IV drip, the monitor and recalled another time. Apart from an unnatural pallor, the Mountie appeared to be sleeping. Ray stood at the foot of the bed not daring to go any nearer. He was stunned.  
  
Surely, not his bullet, not after all this time. A bullet fired in haste, a bullet fired by mistake, stopped Benton deserting him but took eighteen months to complete its journey.  
  
The doctor entered with a paper bundle. He put them down after a brief consultation then began to examine the scar between the Mountie's shoulders. Ray had not seen it before and was curious, craning his neck to get a better look. It looked sore, and large too. Deforming the perfection of Fraser's otherwise flawless back.  
  
Unbidden, unwelcome memories assaulted him. Another night, a cool night, a station platform and a realisation. He was crouched by a body, his hand resting on leather jacketed chest covering a heart that was gradually pulsing less vibrantly. Feeling the heat seep out by degrees. Fighting tears, meeting unfocussed blue eyes and hearing whispered words, understanding few of them.  
  
Benny- what have I done? Benny, don't die, don't let me kill you. Hold on, for God's sake. He'd lowered his gun, the instrument of his guilt. He had pointed that gun at Victoria, he had released the safety, aimed, squeezed the trigger. He'd missed her; the bullet had rushed uncaring across the platform and embedded itself into his partner's back. It had pulled him from the train and out of his lover's arms. Blood in increasing circles on the concrete. Benny's blood.  
  
He shook his head, no. Welsh, Huey, Louis, stunned, speechless, stopped in their tracks. They'd looked at him, accusation in their stares. Horrified.  
  
Surely, the Mountie was indestructible. Surely the Mountie was incorruptible?  
  
Their faith shattered, they 'd stared in silence, the death of hope.  
  
Louis had the presence of mind of all of them to call for an ambulance.  
  
"Officer down!"  
  
After all that had happened, he was still one of them, a cop.  
  
He'd felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, imparting moral support. Unspoken words from Welsh: You were doing your duty.  
  
Duty is a poor excuse for shooting your friend. Naive, innocent, vulnerable Fraser; he needed protecting, not shooting. The ambulance had taken too long that time.  
  
Time had stretched out like it was elastic. Time in which to watch Benny's vitality ooze out of Ray's bullet hole. Ray had gently covered his friend with his coat when he realised he was shaking with tremors. But never did he falter in his recitation of that poem, "Windhover."  
  
Ray had found it much later; powerful words. Words that can keep a man this side of death stop a man crossing over the line of life. He couldn't make sense of its beauty but it had obviously meant a lot to Frasier. Hell, it had saved his life.  
  
He had stayed there, frozen, feeling the snow fall around them both, his hand on his friend's heart willing it to beat. His eyes locked with watery blue ones that contained no accusation, until the paramedics pulled him away.  
  
At the hospital that time he did not know if Benny would pull through. He'd lived through uncertainty. He'd gone through raging powerful emotions; remorse, regret, sorrow, guilt. What would life be like without Benny? How would he ever recover from causing the death of his best friend?  
  
And now, here they were again, those emotions that wrung him out and froze his heart in his chest. That tight feeling across his collar bone, the gnawing in his stomach. Sure, since Benny had entered the 27th stationhouse looking for Detective Armani, those feelings had become familiar to him. It was all part and parcel of "bonding" with the Mountie. He was drawn to danger. A babe magnet and a danger magnet. Ray smiled at the whimsical thought. But he had survived after scaring Ray many times. He would survive now. He had to. He realised he had been angry with him recently, but that did not mean he'd welcome his death.  
  
Memories again of the ICU and sleeping on hard hospital chairs because he did not want Fraser to die alone. Not that the Mountie would ever have known, he was hardly ever awake for the first week after the accident. Huh, accident. Nice word, Ray. He'd never known that Ray was there, or what Ray was going through. His face had looked so relaxed and peaceful then before consciousness had brought back the memories. It had taken weeks to recuperate, to put the memories of Victoria to the back of his mind, to heal the scars both physical and mental.  
  
Time was a funny thing.  
  
Turn the clock back, why couldn't he? Go back to the station, not pull the trigger. But then Benny would have been gone, gone away with her.  
  
Another scenario. Get to the station before Frasier and shoot Victoria. Yes, in a perfect world; that would have worked. Poor Benny, a round peg in a square hole. Trusting people so much that even when faced with all that evidence he did not stop loving her. But he had given so much to Ray, shown him a better way, given him optimism. Turned some of his cynicism into faith; faith in human nature. All Benny ever wanted was to make the world a better place. There weren't enough Benny's. I need him here where he can work his magic, make us all better people.  
  
Ray gripped the metal end of the bed, looked up from his feet to the body on the bed, registered the faint regular breathing of the friend he had shot and waited for the memories to stop. 


	5. A Matter of Time

A Matter of Time  
  
Could you fit any more pain into 24 hours? Emotional pain, not the physical kind. Ray knew he could deal with physical pain a lot more adequately than this. Memories just kept flowing, all of them examples of the ways in which he had let his friend down, or not been there in time for him. Now he was remembering another time. Running through an almost deserted building, searching for him, pushing scattered cartons out of the way, halting at a broken glass panel, no time then to even wonder what damage it had caused his friend. Then a sound of voices, grunts and a noise that registered but which he could not interpret. The sound of a door slamming as he pounded down the corridor, gun drawn.  
  
He could see the body first in its unmistakable blue peacoat and his heart faltered. "Benny? You okay?" A whisper as if his voice could make the difference between life and death. He fell to the floor and was relieved to discover that the Mountie was not dead, as he had feared. Nevertheless, he was too late to have prevented a vicious beating. Ray let his chin fall to his chest and his hands rested limply against his thighs. It was his fight. Zuko was his "enemy." Why had the Mountie got involved? Later, he would get his revenge.  
  
It should have been Ray who was the one to be beaten. This was Marco all over again. Although they had graduated from the school playground, the rules and the game had not changed. The innocent were still getting hurt. But Benny never blamed him, then, either. He didn't complain about his bruises or the pain of the damaged ribs. He had tried to hide the twinges and the winces, but Ray had seen and it tore at his heart. My battle, my people, my old school rival. Yet Ray knew the Mountie was frightened. He had driven him to the hardware store to buy the lock. This was a sure sign that Frasier had realised at long last that Chicago was not like The Territories. That they could get to you when you least expected, they could kill you as you lay in your bed, dreaming sweet dreams of home. But you had to give the guy credit where it was due, even with his face swollen and cut, the women were still attracted to him. And he was more afraid of the attention of women than Frank Zuko's hired help. Ray smiled at the thought.  
  
Despite all that Fraser couldn't let Zuko be blamed for Louis' murder. Even though he had had a hit put on him, almost killed him, made him fearful for perhaps the first time in his life, Fraser still had to see justice done. Ray hated him for it. But in the end had to agree the Mountie had been right all along. He stood by him, prevented Ray from making a big mistake and Ray had rewarded him by vilifying him. Ray had judged his friend too harshly then and again recently after the Train article in The Guardian.  
  
Memories longer ago. Geiger. Benny ran to the roof and was stabbed in the thigh, Ray hadn't even known. He hadn't really listened to the Mountie when he had listed Geiger's misdemeanours: the incredible number of law enforcement officers he had killed on both sides of the border. He was too interested in making a witty reply. Something about hating tourists. Had he really appreciated the danger posed by Geiger, maybe Benny wouldn't have been hurt. That was the first time he had realised that his friend was vulnerable, that he wasn't a super hero, and that he could feel pain and bleed like anyone else. That realisation had rocked Ray. Like it was rocking him now.  
  
A prickling sensation at the back of his neck made him turn round. A pair of pale eyes locked with his. Ray moved round the foot of the bed and sat down. Ray could see the play of emotions across the Mountie's face, in the changing expressions in his eyes, the frown that creased his forehead as he became aware of his situation. Confusion, pain, pleasure then clarity. "Ray?"  
  
A smile. Don't be smiling at me, Benny, thought Ray. I don't deserve it.  
  
But aloud he answered, "I'm here."  
  
"Good." The Mountie replied simply before closing his eyes and falling asleep.  
  
Ray couldn't suppress his annoyance. Here he was, desperate to apologise and make amends, receive forgiveness and what did the ungrateful Mountie do but fall asleep on him.  
  
The next time Fraser woke Ray was gone. 


	6. About Time

7 Minutes: It's about time  
  
  
  
Inspector Margaret Thatcher marched down the sterile hospital corridor, her nose wrinkled in reaction to the smell of antiseptic and floor polish, and something else, the scent of despair. Some people, probably most people, associated the smell of hospitals with hope, recovery, and cure. Thatcher, however, saw only the pain filled failures of the medical profession: an ancient grandma, a dear friend dying of cancer. For this reason she avoided visiting anyone she knew was hospitalized. It made her seem callous, to be sure, and it was a major failing of hers. She had never had the courage to confront that failure and set it right. Not until now.  
  
When she had first come to Chicago, it was in the aftermath of a scandal. One of her new officers, her deputy in fact, was recovering in this very same hospital from being shot by a cop at a train station. It was an inauspicious way to begin a new position and she had resented him for that. She had not visited him then. She did not really know him except through what she had always considered to be urban myths. Weird stories that spread like wildfire through the ranks of the RCMP concerning Bob Fraser's unconventional son, Benton. The reputation that preceded him had seemed to be well deserved and so she could not help her initial discriminatory actions towards him. The first task she had set herself after his return to duty after a lengthy convalescence was to put him on probation. She had not, however, expected him to be so remarkably good looking. Nor so absurdly polite and efficient. The rumours belied the fact that he was an excellent member of the RCMP despite his unorthodox methods. His most recent heroics were true to form and through them he had fully redeemed himself in her eyes. He had rescued a judge and jury from certain death at the hands of insane bombers.  
  
It was to see this hero that she had overcome her fear of hospitals no less because she had some very important news to impart.  
  
  
  
No she was not really being honest with herself, was she? There were other reasons for her being here.  
  
First Ray, that annoying cop, had called her to tell her how he had found Frasier (how it irritated her the way he mispronounced that name) unconscious in an alley and that the doctors were investigating the old bullet wound. Ray had not only sounded exhausted, but frightened in a way she had never noticed in him before. Whatever had rattled Ray had to be serious.  
  
That of course was after his initial call to her house when he first suspected something had happened to the Mountie. She hadn't been too concerned at that point. Fraser was a law unto himself and she had never been able to keep track of his movements; Ray's concern for his errant friend had amused her.  
  
Secondly, her relationship with her deputy had taken a not unwelcome turn. There had been the kiss on the train, a moment of sheer bliss in which time had stood still for both of them. The danger they were in had only served to heighten the thrill, the excitement. Then also the feeling of his body pressed close to hers when they were tied together, his embarrassment at dropping the pin down her front. Despite the threat to their lives she had enjoyed that heart stopping moment when he had cleared his throat to ask, "may I?"  
  
Anytime. Any time. So if that was how she felt why could she not admit it? She had been as flattered as a schoolgirl asked out on a first date when he complimented her in semaphore. A secret signal between them both: red suits you. She had blushed as red as her uniform. Only three days ago he had been standing on the roof of the courthouse waving his arms at her. And now? Now he was hospitalized, barely conscious by all accounts. She could not bear to think of him invalided out. Out of the RCMP, out of Chicago, out of her life. She could only curse herself for being a procrastinating fool; now he was injured, was it too late? Would she ever again feel the pressure of those firm lips against hers? Would she ever get the opportunity to tell him how much she cared?  
  
She paused outside the room, smoothed down her clothes and peered through the glass to check it was him and that he was alone. It would not do to be caught by others at a vulnerable moment. She could not afford to have Turnbull for example see her with her guard down. There appeared to be no one in there apart from a nurse who greeted her as she entered. Margaret nodded in reply as she moved to the foot of the bed, the breath frozen at the top of her lungs. Fraser was awake; well his eyes were open. She couldn't tell if he was aware of her presence so she stood and waited, trying to calm herself by breathing deeply and rhythmically. It was so very difficult to rid herself of negative feelings; feelings that persistently nagged her that people come into places like this but they don't leave. She couldn't do that to him, could she? She could not let him see the despair in her eyes. She had the strength now to stroll casually to the chair at the head of the bed where the nurse was adjusting a drip.  
  
She bestowed a caring smile on the Inspector and whispered to her that she was just finishing.  
  
The lingering smile the nurse bestowed on the Mountie did not escape Margaret's notice. Nor did the fact that this nurse was younger than she and attractive too. Had that unmistakable look of desire brought on a twinge of jealousy? Get used to it, Margaret, she admonished herself, you ought to be by now. Every woman between 15 and 60 fawning over him. Hardly surprising when you studied his face, he was perfect. Even now lying under the covers in a blue hospital gown, vulnerable, pale and weak, the slight flush of fever the only color in his face, the lines of pain around his eyes. She could just reach out and gently stroke that pain away.  
  
"Inspector," the soft voice startled her and she almost jumped. Smoothing her features, she tried to adopt a sterner demeanour when she replied formally, "Constable."  
  
There was silence during which each studied the other, questioningly. Margaret was the first to end the impasse, "I spoke to Detective Vecchio." Benton lifted an eyebrow by way of reply then turned his eyes to the window. There was sadness in them. She wanted to ask what was going on, what had happened between them. There were obvious undercurrents and she was unable to navigate them. She was sure it was something to do with the original accident. But as Fraser had never been particularly forthcoming with her about his personal life she was loathe to pry now. That look in his eyes, though, was heartrending and she dearly wished to be able to help him come to terms with whatever it was that depressed him.  
  
Did he know what was wrong with him, physically? Vecchio had told her that the bullet had moved and it was imperative now that Fraser had surgery to remove it for good. Did he know this? Did she dare broach the subject to him now? Vecchio had also said that as he was named next of kin he had given the go ahead to the surgeon for the operation in view of the fact that Benny was in no condition to give consent himself. There was no alternative as far as he could see. A life without the use of his legs was just a slow way of dying for someone as active as Fraser. Ray knew that it was what his friend would have wanted no matter how risky the procedure. She didn't like it but she had to concur.  
  
Maybe she should just tell him about the commendations he had been awarded, from their own Government and that of their host country. Tucked in her purse was the latest issue of The Chicago Guardian's glossy supplement. For the second time his handsome features graced the cover. Inside was a four- page spread of pictures of the courthouse, Fraser and Ray and various interviews with people lauding him.  
  
She had brought it with her for him to see, as well as the letter of thanks and the get well card from the Mayor.  
  
"Did he tell you about the surgery?"  
  
Fraser had turned his eyes back to hers. She could see they were filled with an immeasurable sadness.  
  
"Yes," she gave him an encouraging smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
He shifted awkwardly in the bed and she rushed to adjust the pillows for him. The heat radiating from his shoulders was almost electric. The purse and its contents lay abandoned on the bedclothes. It broke her heart to see him vulnerable like this, unable to use his long strong legs. She could not shake from her mind's eye that image of him poised on the courthouse roof, his uniform in tatters but still maintaining dignity and his own peculiar brand of humor.  
  
She realised he hadn't answered her question. Well she was a patient woman, she could wait. 


End file.
